Molly Moon Stops the World

by Georgia Byng

  “It’s a treat to meet you,” Primo Cell contrived. “I’m always interested in young stars.” His voice was fluid and smooth, as if his voice box, tongue, and teeth were all lubricated with liquid silicon. Primo offered his well-manicured hand for her to shake. She didn’t take it.

  Molly’s hesitation looked to Primo Cell like reserve. He said, “Oh, of course. You have no idea who I am, do you?”

  Pretending, Molly shook her head. His voice was horribly alluring—she must stop listening to it as soon as she could. “Nice to meet you,” Molly mumbled, and began to turn away.

  Primo wasn’t deterred. This budding starlet had probably been warned that Hollywood was a shark tank and that everyone would want a bite of her.

  “I’d really like to know you better,” he purred. “Molly, I’m hosting the hottest party in Hollywood tonight. Everyone will be there. It’s the place to be. I’d love it if you and your friend would be my guests.” Cell handed Molly two black invitations with gold magpies on them.

  “Hope to see you there.” Primo Cell smiled once more, and he and Sinclair disappeared into the noisy crowd.

  Molly and Rocky looked at their invitations. Neither of them spoke.

  Molly eventually broke the silence. “We only have to go for a while.”

  “We don’t have to go at all,” said Rocky. “Did you see the way he looked at you?”

  “We should go,” insisted Molly, her mind already made up. “Think about it—it’ll give us the perfect chance to find out more about him. We’ve got to find out how he does his unstoppable hypnosis. Maybe something at the house will show us how. He’s probably got a special hypnotizing room that will give us some clues. And if Cell did take Davina, maybe she’s locked in an attic or something. Rocky, I know it feels like walking into the lion’s den, but we’ve got to go.”

  “Molly, thinking we can safely snoop about Cell’s house is like thinking it’s safe to play in a power station without getting electrocuted.”

  “No,” said Molly, picking Petula up, “because we’re not going to play. We’re going there to turn the power off.”

  Twenty-two

  Molly and Rocky were a bit stumped as to how they would get to Primo Cell’s. Their driver had gone, and they realized that getting a cab outside the Kodak building would be tricky, as there were throngs of people there. So when they spotted a long-legged actor in a denim suit with a magpie invitation in his suntanned hand, they politely asked if they could hitch a lift. Molly recognized him from old cowboy films in the video cupboard at Happiness House. His name was Dusty Goldman.

  “As long as you don’t mind travelin’ rough, I’d love to take ya. My car’s parked out back,” he said, a grin wrinkling his weathered face.

  Pleased to meet someone who seemed real, and not caring how rough his car was, Molly and Rocky followed Dusty Goldman toward the rear exit of the Kodak Theatre.

  “I’m surprised you recognized me,” he said modestly. “I haven’t made a big film for years.”

  “Why were you at the Awards?” asked Rocky.

  “An old friend of mine directed a movie that got nominated for best soundtrack and her husband couldn’t go—caught some sort of bug—so she offered me his ticket and the party invitation. Thought I’d go for old time’s sake.”

  Outside the theater’s service entrance, the sun had gone down and it was getting cold. Dusty led Molly, Petula, and Rocky to a beat-up convertible. It was rusty, dented, and muddy.

  “Why don’t more people leave by the back entrance?” asked Molly. “There aren’t any crowds here.”

  “Well, precisely. People like to be seen, especially by the cameras,” said Dusty. “The more times their picture gets published, the more famous they get. The more famous they get, the more cameras wanna take their picture. It’s a spiral that goes around and around, and most of them want to ride it. They want to get higher on that spiral than anyone else has ever got before. Higher than Marilyn Monroe or Elvis. They want to become gods for the people. That’s why not many leave out back.” He climbed into the front seat of his unlocked car. “I’m not saying that lots of the people here aren’t real talented. There are real good actors, and world-class directors, but a lot of them get sucked into this ugly spiral thing.”

  Molly and Rocky liked Dusty. He had his feet on the ground and his head screwed on. They hopped into his Thunderbird, slipping into its worn-out leather seats. Dusty took the battered wheel in his left hand and twisted the ignition with his right, and with a few shifts of the gear stick and a growl from the engine, they were off.

  It was refreshing but cold to be driving in an opentopped car. Dusty gave Molly a jacket to wrap around herself. Petula sat on her lap, licking at the breeze. They drove back along Hollywood Boulevard and picked up speed as they coasted through West Hollywood, the bright lights of restaurants, hotels, and bars flashing past them. Petula’s ears flapped in the wind.

  “You like music?”

  “Love it,” said Rocky. Dusty switched on a countryand-western radio station.

  “Do you play anything?”

  “Guitar,” said Rocky.

  “Have you ever been in there?” Molly asked as they passed the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  “Yeah. It’s very expensive—all gold an’ pink an’ fulla cushions. It’s like the inside of a tissue box in there.” He concentrated on the road. “Ah, see up there? That’s Primo Cell’s mansion all lit up.”

  Molly recognized Cell’s home from Lucy’s photographs. It was high up on the hill, huge and set in a cedar-filled park. Its gray stone walls and gardens were illuminated with silvery spotlights. As they drove upward, less and less of the grounds was visible, until eventually all they could see was the high wall that surrounded the mansion.

  Dusty drove up to the imposing gate, turned off his music, and flashed their invitations at the security guards.

  “Never been here before,” he commented.

  “Neither have we.”

  Molly hoped her rash decision to come had not been unwise.

  Dusty followed a line of other cars up the long, winding drive, past the cedar trees and small lakes with colored lights under the water. The undulating lawns were dotted with monster-sized sculptures of jaggedsteel beasts that looked as if they were grazing under the full moon. Here and there, small lights moved about on the grass.

  “An art lover. I s’pose there’ll be quite a collection inside. So,” said Dusty dryly, “even if the people aren’t interesting, maybe the stuff covering the walls will be. And by looking at our host’s art, we’ll be able to see what he’s like.”

  The drive rolled into a graveled area above and behind the main building, where a parking attendant directed Dusty to a space by a wall. In the middle of the parking lot, a large stone magpie, poised for flight, was set in the center of a fountain. Water sprayed out of its wing tips.

  Molly got out of the car and drank in the view. Below them were the roofs, chimneys, and top-floor windows of Primo Cell’s house. Beyond, the vast expanse of Los Angeles spread out like an eiderdown of millions of Christmas lights, some in neat rows, others a hodgepodge of color and winking neon.

  “I’ve heard about this view. The city looks like a computer circuit board from here, don’t it?” said Dusty as they made their way down the stone steps that led to the back of the house.

  Ornamental rose gardens were laid out to the left and right, each the home of more steel sculptures. A peacock ruffled up its feathers as Petula walked past. At the bottom of the steps there was a Japanese water garden with blossoming trees. Fragrant purple wisteria hung in clumps from a curving wooden footbridge. In the pond below, huge orange-and-white-mottled fish swam beneath the lily pads.

  “Chinese carp,” Dusty pointed out as they crossed the bridge. Molly realized that this was the first time she’d ever been to a really rich person’s house. Molly thought how extraordinary it must be to come home to a place like this every day. They passed under an arch and came to a
circular cobbled courtyard, where a sculpture of an egg surprised them by suddenly shooting a shaft of orange flame out of its top. Ahead was an ornately carved door. Here, another security guard checked their invitations. Then Molly, Petula, and Rocky followed Dusty into a tall lobby.

  They found themselves looking over a balustrade into a large hall. A huge flight of oak stairs led down to a patterned marble floor that looked as if someone had spilled jugs of coffee on it. Jazzy music floated out from a room beyond. Everywhere was busy with waiters and waitresses hurrying in and out of rooms with trays of glasses and food.

  “Let’s go out front,” said Dusty, and he led them into Primo Cell’s drawing room.

  The huge space, now filled up with guests, had been emptied of furniture for the party. A colossal chandelier with crystal pieces dripping from it like a thousand dewdrops hung from the center of the ceiling. A fourpiece band was playing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” Dusty did a funny wiggly dance as they walked past the musicians.

  As they emerged onto a terrace the size of a tennis court, a voice shrilled, “Hey, Dusty, you made it!”

  A tall, beautiful Arab woman in a red gauze dress threw her arms around the old film star’s neck.

  “Have a great evening—nice meetin’ ya,” Dusty said, winking at Molly and Rocky as he turned to join his director friend.

  Molly and Rocky were offered fruit punch by a waiter. Petula ate an olive that she found on the floor. Then she began sucking on its pit. Molly stared up at Primo Cell’s house.

  It had four floors. Looking in through the windows of the ground-floor rooms, she could see people celebrating—holding flutes of champagne and triangular cocktail glasses. Gloria Heelheart was hugging Gino Pucci; Hercules Stone was admiring Suky Champagne’s Oscar; Stephanie Goulash was greeting King Moose with a kiss. Even the politician Gandolli, whom Molly recognized from election-campaign posters around town, was there. Gossip, laughter, and excitement filled the night air. People basked in the satisfaction of knowing this was the best party in Hollywood tonight. Many of them were “working” the rooms, making sure that they talked to the most important people. Actors were trying to charm directors, directors were flattering producers, producers were seeking out stars who they thought could make their next film a box-office hit.

  But Molly was thinking how lucky it was that they had found their way here on a night like this. Downstairs, the mansion might be buzzing with noise and movement, but behind the windows of the upstairs rooms were no signs of activity. Nice and quiet, she thought, for a little exploring.

  Twenty-three

  Molly and Rocky finished their fruit punches and returned to the coffee-spattered marble hall. The oak staircase they had come down was flooded with noisy people, and two security guards were standing on the landing at the top. Molly and Rocky decided to look downstairs first. Squeezing between a woman in a gold kaftan who was as wide as a cow and a fat man with a white mustache, they entered an emptier room. It was full of modern art and lit by a large steel-and-glass chandelier.

  “Remember what Dusty said,” Rocky reminded Molly. “By looking at Cell’s art, we’ll be able to see what he’s like.”

  To the left was a very weird green-and-gray picture of lots of tiny people the size of mice wearing nothing except leashes, being pulled along by an organ-grinder’s monkey that was also on a leash. Opposite was a portrait of Cell himself, so huge that its canvas completely hid the wall. His eyes, one brown, one turquoise, showed the reflection of a flying magpie in their pupils.

  “I wonder where he is right now,” whispered Molly as a waiter approached them with a tray. On it was an artistic arrangement of what looked like fried crabs and a bowl of black sauce.

  “What is it?” Molly asked.

  “Soft-shell crab,” replied the waiter. When he saw Molly’s puzzled look, he added, “You can eat them whole—they’re a special kind of crab.”

  “Er, no thanks,” Molly said. Rocky took one.

  “Mmmmnn, crunchy,” he pronounced.

  Rocky was now too excited by the party to find the thought of Cell scary.

  “I shouldn’t think he’s that interested in us. He’s got much bigger fish to fry.”

  “I don’t want to be fried at all,” said Molly, looking at the soft-shell crabs as they went by again.

  Molly, Petula, and Rocky began to weave, unnoticed, through the increasingly animated guests, in search of Cell’s private rooms. They followed the marble hall to its end and opened a door that led to a conservatory. Thick jungle foliage climbed pillars that sheltered hundreds of blooming orchids, and the air smelled moist and sweet. At one end was an indoor fountain where three people were playing guitars and singing.

  There was a tall, thin teenage boy with a large nose and shaggy hair, and a girl of about sixteen, with an urchin haircut and one eyebrow with a section cut out of it. The other one, to Molly and Rocky’s amazement, was Billy Bob Bimble. They stopped to listen. Molly could see Rocky was desperate to pick up a guitar and join in, but she glared at him to remind him of their more important mission.

  Rocky began to hum along.

  “Cool, man,” the shaggy one said, nodding his head and shutting his eyes as he played.

  Then Rocky began to talk in time to the music. Molly was impressed. He was making up words as he went along and sounded really good. But when he gave her a signal, she walked away with Petula, right to the other end of the conservatory. Molly didn’t want to be hypnotized by Rocky. She waited for a few minutes. When she came back, she found the three guitar players staring fixedly at him.

  “Coooool,” said the shaggy one. They were all in trances.

  Molly gave each of them an extra eye glare. Then she asked them whether they’d been hypnotized by Cell. They had. On her instruction to forget all his instructions, the girl with the eyebrow said, “No way, man. What—Primo says—sticks.”

  “Yeah,” said Billy Bob Bimble. “Primo’s—cool. Gotta write—a song—about him.”

  “You already have, haven’t you? Your magpie song is about him,” said Molly, thinking of the tune that had been played on radios all over the world.

  “No, man, that—track is—about a woman who’s gonna have her heart broken. It’s a love song.”

  Molly realized that, on the surface, Bimble was oblivious to Primo Cell’s true self. But deep down inside he must, she thought, understand the kind of man Cell was. His song showed that.

  “Sing the magpie song,” she said.

  Billy Bob’s caramel-coated voice rang out.

  “Don’t let him steal your heart,

  Steal it,

  Steel your heart, oooooooooh,

  Don’t let him have your heart,

  Guard it from the start, oooooooh,

  Steel your heart,

  Magpie man, oooooh,

  Wants the sun and the stars and you, ooooh,

  Magpie man.”

  “Where did Cell hypnotize you?”

  “In—the movie—room,” said Billy Bob Bimble.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Downstairs.” He pointed to some stairs at the far end of the conservatory.

  “Outside in the croquet garden,” said Shaggy Hair. The girl nodded.

  Molly instructed them not to remember meeting Rocky or her and released the musicians from their trance. Then they left them to their strumming and went to find the movie room.

  It was a fabulous private cinema-cum-theater with armchair-sized reclining seats. Plush silk curtains were drawn back from a huge screen on which two very fast Ferraris were chasing each other along a cliff-top road. A young man with a serious face was showing a film he had made to an old producer.

  Reluctantly Molly and Rocky returned the way they had come.

  “We won’t be able to find any clues in there,” said Molly.

  “Wish we could just party and watch movies all night,” said Rocky as they made their way outside again. Beside a small croquet lawn surrounded by outdoor
heaters, they found Tony Wam, the karate star, and two other famous actors from big TV soap operas. They were talking about fan mail. Petula sniffed at their trousers. Molly went to eavesdrop on two women who were sitting talking under a lemon tree. An old actress was giving a pretty young girl some advice.

  “To be frank, dear, you should have your cheekbones enhanced—they’d just put a bit of extra bone under the skin—it would make all the difference to your face. And a few nice Botox injections in your forehead would be good, because then you could say good-bye to those nasty frown lines that you’re getting. I’ve had Botox. Look at this—I’m frowning now but you can’t see I am, can you?”

  “No, there aren’t any lines.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But don’t we need lines? How does the audience know you’re frowning, or angry or sad?” asked the young actress.

  “I don’t know, darling, but I’m not going to grimace just because some part demands it. I’m not ruining my face for that.”

  Molly checked these two out and found that they too were loyal to Primo Cell. She also made the first significant discovery of the evening.

  “Where did Primo Cell hypnotize you?” she asked the Botoxed woman.

  “Up—stairs—in his—private rooms,” she replied.

  “How do you get to them?”

  “You go up the front stairs and follow the landing to the right, past all the pretty bedrooms.”

  “They’re so beautiful—I stayed there once.” The young actress sighed.

  “You walk along to the end until you come to a special door ….”

  “A dreamy door …”

  “It leads up some more stairs….”

  “Exquisite stairs …”

  “If you are lucky, you may go up there with Primo and have tea.”

  “Oh, it’s paradise up there….”

  “You will see Primo’s wonderful private rooms—his workrooms and his library and his study. He’s a very interesting, intelligent …”

  “He’s a brilliant man. He ought to be president.”